Death Walks on Mars
Date: 2021-05-02T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science fiction; Short stories; Revenge -- Fiction; Mars (Planet) -- Fiction; Criminals -- Fiction

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Title: Death Walks on Mars

Author: Alan J. Ramm

Release date: May 1, 2021 [eBook #65208]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH WALKS ON MARS ***

Like pioneers in Earth's past, Terry and
his wife came to the red planet seeking their
fortune. But others came too, ready to prove—

Death Walks On Mars

By Alan J. Ramm

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
February 1958
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

There was death above. The Martian Sand Vulture swooped and hissed and twitched its barbed, poisonous tail in the thin air.

There was death below. The man lay cradled in the pebbly sand. Red sand that matched the color of his hair and the color of the blood oozing slowly from the hole in his forehead and trickling greasily along the inside of his punctured head-bubble. The air whistled thinly through the corresponding hole in the bubble as the oxygen converter tried vainly to maintain the proper breathing mixture.

There was death in the muzzle of the gun dangling nonchalantly from the tall man's gloved hand. It grinned from his face, etched in the sardonic twist that the purple scar gave to his right cheek. It danced in the emotionless distances of his eyes.

There was death in every beat of Leeda Carson's heart. With the adaptability of a pioneer she accepted the fact of death; even that of her husband's. The last two long Martian years had tested Terry's and her love; refined it with hardships and discouragement. The menacing gun was an easy way to rejoin him. But it was too easy; too soft a response to unwarranted killing. With unrelenting determination, she kindled and fanned to life a fierce resolve that the three men before her would pay, as slowly and as painfully as possible, for what they had done.

Through lips necessarily stiff with the effort of controlled emotion, she asked, "Why did you kill him?"

"Didn't have anything against him, Ma'am. Had to do it. Showed we meant business. Easier to handle one than two of you anyway." The eyes of the tubby man who answered her kept flickering anxiously upward toward the Sand Vulture. "That thing as dangerous as they say?"

Leeda turned to the third and youngest man. His glance was fixed hypnotically on the death on the ground. His skin was pale and his forehead beaded with sweat. She repeated, "What did you do it for?"

"Got into trouble at Canalport. Heard a rumor that you and your husband had struck a pocket of Martian Sunbursts. Fixed up a deal with a ship's cargo master to smuggle us back to Earth if we turned your stuff over to him. He jetted us out here. Left a while ago." The fat man itched frantically as he answered her. They all itched, Leeda noticed. It took a long time on Mars before anyone became used to the dust that penetrated even the Protecto-suits. It produced an agony that demanded attention; followed by festering sores.

"You talk too much, Fatso," the tall one said angrily.

"What's the difference, Rick?" Fatso said philosophically. "Won't do her any good."

Rick turned to Leeda. "At least you know the score. Do you want to tell us where the stuff is, or are you going to make it tough on yourself?"

Eyes like a Razor-back Sand Lizard, Leeda thought. "Out by our diggings," she answered readily. His eyes moved to the plastic bubble-house that she and Terry had called home when they weren't digging. "Search the place if you don't believe me," she suggested. "We never brought any of them back here with us. We cached them in the cave until we were ready to go home."

"Then you did strike it?" the young man interrupted eagerly.

She nodded.

Rick turned to the young man. "Search the house, Jocco. She may be lying."

The Sand Vulture wheeled and made a few low exploratory swoops toward them as they waited for Jocco. Leeda automatically checked her clothing to be sure she was completely covered. If that barbed tail touched the skin, death came—slow, agonizing, sure.

Jocco came back. "Emptier than interstellar space."

Holstering his gun, Rick started off saying, "Let's go. And no funny stuff."

Leeda smiled ironically and remained where she was. "It's not that easy. The cave is four walking days away."

Startled, Fatso groaned. "Where's your sand-mobile?"

"Broken down at the diggings. We came back to get parts."

Fatso and Jocco cussed loudly. Rick quieted them. "Get the parts," he told Leeda.

"You bring any water?" she asked.

"You haven't any?" Fatso's voice rose shrilly.

Leeda reached to her waist and the small attached flask. "Just this. And Terry has—had—one just like it. Enough for a couple old-timers like us. Not near enough for everyone now. Particularly with you being new to Mars."

Jocco snatched the flask from Terry's waist.

"I'll take that, Jocco," Rick commanded. "And yours too," he gestured to Leeda.

She handed it over obediently.

"But, Rick," Fatso began.

"No arguments. Share and share alike. I'll dole it out. Now get the parts," he told Leeda. "You go with her, Fatso."

As soon as they were back, the men began to move off. For the first time Leeda lost control of herself. "For God's sake, aren't you going to at least bury him?"

Rick's face twisted with its wry grin as he walked back to her. "Give the Sand Vulture a break. He's got to eat."

"But ..." she began to protest.

Swiftly he was beside her, doing something to her fingers. The pain surged up her arm; brought her stomach up into her throat gaggingly.

Then he released her. Gave her a shove. "When I say move, that's what I mean. Get going."

The cold, dry Martian air sucked the moisture irresistibly through the skin and suits. As the day slid slowly by, the ever near horizon stayed practically featureless. The red sand bored like Callisto hornets into the skin.

Lips began to crack. Twice they stopped to sip the water. The second time, Rick looked at her. "How the devil do you know where we are?"

"Maybe I don't," she taunted.

"You'd better. We've no way of checking on you. But if you double-cross me, I'll strip your clothes off and leave you to the first Sand Vulture that comes along. Understand?"

"Don't worry," she answered, "I know the way. I've covered it often enough. There are many little landmarks if you know what to look for."

When evening came, Rick let each of them barely wet their lips. Then he said, "I need sleep and I can't trust anyone. So I'm going to hide the water in the desert. If anything happens to me, you'll all die of thirst. Now turn your backs."

Leeda heard him scramble off. He soon returned. "Now let's sleep."

The below-zero cold of the Martian night challenged the thermo-unit of Leeda's desert suit until she lay shivering. But, worn out from the walk and the emotional events of the day, she finally dropped off to sleep.

It was still dark when she awoke. Deliberately making a noise, she listened for someone to challenge her. When no one moved, she slipped off into the desert.

It took her several hours at a rapid pace to get back to the bubble-house. Terry's Protecto-suit lay scattered over a wide area. His bones gleamed faintly in the barely discernible Martian moonlight—picked clean by the Sand Vulture and Razor-back Lizards.

Flinging herself on the sand, she poured out her grief with dry, racking sobs. The power to cry had long since been sucked out of her by dehydration.

Rising at last, she gathered together the things she had come for. When, at last, she returned to the night's camp, the three men were still fast asleep.

Next morning, while they sat munching the tasteless emergency food tablets that were carried in the desert, Rick went after the water. Suddenly his cussing rolled across the desert toward them. Leeda smiled quietly.

He came back at a half-run. Disgustedly, he flung the flasks at their feet. The sides had gaps ripped in them. "What nitwits," he cursed. "Naturally, the cold froze the water. When it expanded, it tore the flasks apart. You knew this would happen," he accused Leeda.

"Of course," she admitted.

Fatso struck her across the shoulders, knocking her onto the sand.

"None of that, Fatso," Rick commanded. "We need her worse now than ever. Is there any water near?" he asked Leeda.

"About two days away. And then it's a gamble whether it will be good to drink. Sometimes the water following the strata from the pole hits a pocket of mineral that's poison. When that happens, The Explorers Guild puts up a Death's Head Sign to warn anyone from drinking it. As you know, they check every water source regularly."

"Is it far from your strike?" Jocco asked.

"About a day's walk."

"Any water at your cave?" Rick questioned.

"None. We didn't use much. And when we did need a supply, we got it from the outcropping I've mentioned and took it back and distilled it."

"Well, we've got to head for the spring," Rick decided. "And it better be good water," he warned Leeda. "If it isn't and we've got to die out here, I'll see that you never bring in those Sunbursts either."

They plodded voicelessly after Leeda. She set as fast a pace as she dared. Even then Fatso began to drift back.

"Keep up, damn you," Rick warned. "If you don't, we'll leave you here alone."

Midway through the morning, Jocco burst out. "Look at her. Fresh as a Venusian pool lily. She must have some water on her."

Grimly they searched Leeda. She stiffened against their invading fingers and smiled at them derisively. "I told you that a veteran doesn't need water like you do."

Rick took her arm and twisted it until she crumpled with a cry onto the sand. His voice was full of suspicion. "What a fool I've been. Why didn't you abandon us last night when you had the chance?"

Shrugging out of his grasp, she rose and turned to him, "I wouldn't miss the pleasure of seeing you all die for all the Sunbursts on Mars."

She strode away at a faster pace than before.

It was about six hours after they had been on the way that Fatso stopped and began to yell. "Damn dust. Grinding right into my guts. Gotta scratch." He ripped and tore at his clothes until his stomach was bare. With a look of unutterable satisfaction, he began to itch and dig.

The SWOOOOSH could hardly be picked up. There was a long shadow; then a scream from Fatso. The Sand Vulture's tail came out of his belly red. Then the Vulture was away; circling high and out of range.

Blindly Rick pulled his gun and fired. Fast as his trigger finger was, the poison was faster. By the third shot Fatso began to scream. His voice rose up the scale of torture; bursting occasionally in a paean of agony. And as he screamed, he lay on the ground writhing. Before their eyes, his stomach began to bulge and turn purple from the poison. His eyes rolled up into his head. And the moans began to dribble from his lips like the litany of an insane chorus.

"I can't stand it," Jocco shouted. "How long will it last?"

"Not long enough," Leeda answered, her voice brittle with satisfaction. "Only about ten hours. And in that time he will become mindless, an animal begging for death; then finally, he'll just grovel there moaning, and moaning, and moaning."

"You wanted this to happen to him," Jocco accused.

Leeda looked at him. "And I hope the same for you—only worse."

"Stop it, you two," Rick commanded. "It's bad enough this way. The living must live. He is dead and he doesn't know it. Why let him suffer?"

"More meat for the Sand Vulture," Leeda suggested sarcastically.

The scar on Rick's cheek flared red-purple. He leveled his gun slowly, with steady aim. After the trigger was pulled, Fatso stopped moving. "More meat for the Sand Vulture," he answered Leeda. "Now let's move."

The red dust whispered at Leeda all day—Death—Death—Death. Even with a pebble in her mouth to suck on, she felt her lips split and wrinkle. Her blood, sweet in her mouth, was welcome moisture. She set her shoulders forward and plodded through the endless sand and pebbly underfooting.

Toward evening Jocco stumbled and fell several times. At last he lay limply; looking to Leeda and Rick pleadingly. His lips moved slackly until he at last managed to croak, "Gotta rest. Can't go on. Please don't leave me."

Rick mouthed his reply thickly. "I'm pretty beat myself. Let's rest."

Leeda flopped to the sand without an answer. Her mouth was full of tongue. The pebble she had been sucking feeling like a file against her lips. Every muscle ached; every cell screamed for moisture.

After a long, wordless rest, Rick hauled himself to his feet and faced Leeda. "Can't trust you now. You'll sneak off and leave us alone."

Leeda looked at him scornfully. "Don't worry about that. I meant what I said. I want to see you die."

"Still got to watch you," Rick replied. He turned to Jocco. "You get some sleep first. I'll watch her. Later I'll wake you to take over."

Leeda molded a hip hole in the sand and settled down. The night cold had long descended when the two men changed shifts. All through his trick, Rick had sat facing her. She lay quietly, simulating sleep. At last Jocco began to nod and doze. For a while he managed to jerk himself awake; but he finally fell over and slept.

Cautiously she crept over to him and shook his arm. He didn't stir. Satisfaction touched with grim humor warmed her internally as she bent over him and removed his boots. She moved with them off into the desert. Satisfied at last that she was far enough from camp, she heaved the boots into the desert darkness.

She wasn't gone long, but even so she had barely settled down again when she heard Rick shake Jocco, "Wake up, you fool. I'd like to kill you for this. The girl could have crept off and you wouldn't have known it."

"I'm sorry, Rick. But I'm tired. I couldn't help it."

Rick began to cuss but stopped. "What's the use. Go back to sleep. I'll finish your watch."

It wasn't until they were ready to move the next morning that Jocco noticed that his boots were missing. He turned to Leeda. "You stole them."

"Don't be a damned fool," Rick answered. "She was watched all night. You probably had a nightmare and heaved them out into the desert. Let's look."

Leeda watched them search in an ever widening circle. Limping and still bootless, Jocco moved with Rick back to the camp.

"You'll have to try it as is," Rick was saying as they came close.

"But I can't," Jocco whined. "The dust almost drove me crazy with them on. What will I do this way?"

"That's your problem," Rick said callously. "Come or stay here alone. It's up to you." He turned to Leeda, "Glad to see you look so lousy this morning. At least you are suffering some, too. If you're telling the truth, we'll be at the pool tomorrow."

They were on the way about a half hour when the sand around Jocco's feet began to boil. Almost immediately his voice rose shrilly and then disappeared except for twitchings on his cheeks and lips.

"What's wrong, Jocco?" Rick asked.

"His feet," Leeda said laconically.

It looked as though Jocco was sinking into the sand. Then the red stains spreading into the sand told a different story.

"Razor-back Lizards," Leeda informed Rick. "They're all over the place. Come to life during the day when it's a little warmer. Our footwear keeps them off. But Jocco's feet haven't any protection so they can get at him. They'll slice away at him a fraction of an inch at a time. In fifteen minutes there won't be anything left but his suit and a skeleton. Pleasant death, eh Rick? But after all, they do have to eat, as you have said."

Jocco toppled and lay twitching on his side; the legs of his Protecto-suit apparently buried in the sand. The pants legs were strangely deflated except for the twisting and squirming of the unseen Lizards as they ate their way into the upper part of the suit. It took less than fifteen minutes. At the end, Leeda looked away. Once, long ago, she had watched in horror as the blood-colored tide burst into the helmet of a prospector friend of Terry's and hers. It was a sight that she had seen many times later in nightmares. Now as she imagined it, she heard Rick suck in his breath sharply and say hoarsely, "No! No!"

"Shall we be moving on?" she asked at last. The suit filled only with fleshless skeleton, lay deflated on the ground.

Rick's face was a dull sandy yellowish hue. He nodded and turned off into the desert without a word.

That third day was shooting pains, a chest that protested with every step, legs that could not be felt but somehow magically functioned. Many times Leeda was ready to quit. She began to stagger and weave erratically across the sand. The only thing that kept her going was the obsession of revenge that seemed to provide a limitless source of power whenever she seemed weakest. And Rick was getting bad; he seemed about finished. How he managed to keep moving, Leeda could not imagine. He fell repeatedly; but pulled himself doggedly back to his feet and stumbled after her.

When she flopped to the sand toward nightfall, he gestured her to her feet. And when she failed to get up, he came over and dragged her roughly erect. "Can't stop—never get up—gotta keep moving—until we die—or get there. Move!"

But the Martian night accomplished what she could not. Landmarks became indistinguishable; they soon would have been lost.

Lying down, Leeda adjusted her head-bubble so that it became opaque; conserving the warmth that leaked off so rapidly from a transparent object.

At long intervals she tried to move away from Rick who had settled right beside her. But each time his hand grabbed her firmly, forcing her back to the sand. He apparently intended to stay awake all night so she wouldn't sneak off.

When the morning of the fourth day arrived, they rose and once more moved stiffly, without a word for one another, across the wastes on the route that Leeda had selected.

Without quite knowing how it had happened, Leeda twice found herself on her knees on the sand. She knew she had been staggering; that her strength had long past left her; yet she was still amazed that her legs would not do the bidding of her mind. Each time she fell, Rick jerked her roughly to her feet and supported her until her legs moved automatically again.

His eyes were red-rimmed; his lips a ghastly slash of scabs and sores. About mid-morning he began to mumble incoherently, as though his voice alone could keep him sane. The only recognizable word that slid through his lips was, "Water! Water!"

It beat like the tone of a bass Callisto Satan Temple drum on Leeda's strained mind until she began to vision waterfalls and huge cakes of ice on the desert before her. Reality and imagination became mixed until she wondered if there was a place called Mars and if the past few days were real.

And it became noon; then mid-afternoon.

Suddenly the water-hole appeared as a dark spot on the featureless landscape before them. Distinguishable only by the lichens that surrounded it.

They both broke into a shuffling, jerky trot. Leeda was yards behind Rick when he reached the mud-hole. Instead of flinging himself down to the moisture, he stiffened, then his voice broke into a babbling cackle. He pointed to the perma-metal sign staked in the watery mud. A Death's Head stood embossed on its surface; the Interplanetary symbols for DEATH etched into the age-resisting metal.

Then his hand moved like doom to the skeleton that lay, head touching the red mud, on the edge of the hole.

Ignoring Leeda completely, his voice broke into a hideous sing-song of wild laughter; and the word, "Poison," tumbled endlessly from his throat.

He stopped abruptly and turned to the desert. The lines of agony on his face smoothed out and the old sardonic grin twisted its way to his cheeks. Only his eyes gleamed madly. With a tremendous effort, he said loudly, "Water! There. Only a little way off."

And he staggered off into the desert, his arms extended eagerly, his hands fluttering aimlessly.

Leeda watched him go. Watched him chase his mirage out into the Martian wastes that extended for hundreds of miles without the slightest trace of water. Watched him stagger into oblivion until he became small with the distance.

Kneeling, she pushed the mud aside in the water-hole forming a small trough into which the red water could seep. Then she advanced the gauge on her head-bubble until she was breathing almost pure oxygen. Patiently she breathed in the mixture. After fifteen minutes, she removed the head-bubble and bent her lips to the accumulated water. Her oxygen saturated system would easily permit her to go a full ten or more minutes without having to take a breath.

Twice she lay back and let the water regain its level. Then drank. Satisfied at last, she placed the head-bubble once more onto its flange in the suit.

Rising, she pulled the poison sign from the mud and carried it over to the skeleton. There she eased herself to the sand and gently placed her hand on the head of the skeleton.

"We did it, Terry," she said gently. There was triumph in her voice; a feeling of peace and wholeness once more inside her. "The fools thought they could beat us. Four days to make an easy five hour walk. Circling; around and around. Waiting. Waiting and planning, and killing. Now they are dead and I can give you a decent burial.

"Forgive me, my Darling for moving you over here that first night. But I needed the sign and you to get even. Thanks for your help."

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH WALKS ON MARS ***

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